


lowercase noises

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when I get super sappy, I write poetry. These first couple are from my former Tumblr (with a few revisions). If I get drunk enough, I may write more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

i'm tellin' you, boy—  
you were doomed  
the moment the stars were put in the sky

they drew you a map of him  
to show you how to pick up the pieces  
and put him back together

only you didn't know  
you'd end up in pieces, too

there's more than one way

 

 

to fall

and sometimes  
even you need a hero

but boy, you listen to me—  
those same eyes that broke you apart  
will be the beacons that lead you home again


	2. Chapter 2

he is older than the bones in this earth;

he's ridden on the back of ursa major  
and danced underneath the aurora borealis;

he's witnessed the rise and fall   
of a thousand civilizations,  
each one of them the span of a single breath in his lungs;

 

  
but he chose you still.


	3. Chapter 3

an angel fell  
when he lifted a man  
from perdition

a man fell  
when he lifted an angel  
into his embrace

and both slipped  
when they gripped  
too tightly


	4. Chapter 4

you say you've done the unforgivable;  
that you are undeserving of my devotion.  
  
but i have not forgotten  
the day you cleansed me by the river,  
  
  
and how you chased after me still.  
  
  
if it is a transgression to love you,  
then i gladly declare myself a sinful man—  
  
  
and i will be the one who chases after you.


	5. Chapter 5

when he offers you the tattered coat,   
you realize the truest miracles are not of a divine nature;

they come from hands that were born from dust,   
blood and bone twined together with the grit of this earth to make flesh;  
to bear life;  
to bear choice.

he brings you rags, but it feels like royalty—  
a pedestal you once dared stand upon  
but never deserved;  
an idol fashioned in your likeness   
that only served your destruction.

yet, you watch him gather your ashes  
and breathe new life into them.  
he baptizes you with unshed tears and unspoken pleas,  
and you wonder if this is what it feels like

to be born again.

they had taught you well—  
emotion is weakness;  
emotion is the crack in your chassis

—but not well enough.  
  
they failed to recognize that it is through these very cracks  
that you see how a soul shines so brightly;

how a freely-thinking human  
who, with one gesture of solidarity,

_chooses._

and so shall you.

you will wear it like a hair shirt;  
your penance;  
your atonement;  
a reminder of your promise to redeem yourself to him.

and you will never question  
when the choice presents itself  
once,  
twice,

even seventy times over.

for he chose you first—  
so you shall choose him, too.


	6. Chapter 6

oh, my love—  
have we forgotten what it feels like to touch each other?

i remember when i pulled down the sky for you;  
when i gathered stardust from the farthest reaches of the universe  
and recrafted my father's most wondrous creation.

i remember how there was a time   
these hands had the power to heal;  
to knit together sinew and flesh,  
to breathe new life into the lungs  
of a man who believed so little

and deserved so much.

it was an accident when i left my brand on you—  
a perfect, miraculous accident—  
but it took me years to recognize  
the imprint your soul left on me.

and now, my dear,   
i fear we've come too far to be too late.   
in the wake of our transgressions,  
something stale between us lingers.  
the dried blood has washed off   
and the bruised knuckles have mended,   
but we remain unclean and broken in ways that   
grace alone cannot repair.

you nurse your drink like you   
lick your wounds,  
guarding your perimeter and locking your doors  
without knowing which side you're trying to protect more.  
the calluses hide the small gestures we once cherished:  
the brush of my fingers,   
the heat of your palm.  
if this is all we've become— _monsters_  
—then i would sooner die by your hand  
than the weight of this wretched guilt.

i beg you, my love, my life—this disquiet   
will be the noose around our necks;  
these unspoken words that slip through the cracks in our ribs  
only serve to fester in the pit of our stomachs  
and remind us of how hollow we are.

my love,  
perhaps it's time we learned a different kind of   
grace.

in the twilight hours, i will pluck the stars once more  
and watch the galaxy light up in your eyes  
as we remember beneath body-warmed sheets  
what it means to touch,  
to feel,  
to love each other again.


	7. Chapter 7

i regret making you fall apart  
while you tried to put me back together  
but maybe we broke  
so our pieces would intermix  
and we could rebuild each other with parts of ourselves  
because when i look at you  
i see the good you brought out in me  
and i know my heart is no longer my own


	8. Chapter 8

but if i dared speak a word about how you make me feel

 

you'd hear the cracks in my bones

the aches in my chest

the groanings in my stomach

 

and you'd realize just how broken i am without you


	9. Chapter 9

a four-word conversation will take place at 3:01 a.m. on february 24th, 2019 between an angel and a man;

the angel will be on a mission from the past, the entire world at stake, 

and for the man, the apocalypse will be nothing but a mere memory that defied all prophecy. 

these two entities, while coming from completely different lifetimes, will regard each other as if staring in a very curious mirror, 

albeit one with his grace still intact, 

and the other aging gracefully.

the angel will tilt his head and ask, “you’re human. why?”

and the man will gaze upon the sleeping form in his bed, where dreams no longer elude him but are an ever-present reality, and will simply reply,

“love.”


End file.
